The French, the Russian and Everything In Between
by OddLittleBrit
Summary: A place for my France and Russia pieces - a date, a wedding, and maybe more. Updated as and when I write more France/Russia (though there's some USUK on the side!)
1. A Week-long Getaway

**AN: I sometimes write for my friend who likes a bit o' FRussia, so have a lil thang with the two. PS I had to do some research, apologies if anything is wrong**

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia is not mine **

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When the plane landed in Moscow, Francis sat up with a grin slowly spreading across his face. He practically skipped to baggage reclaim, and then hurried into the toilets - a four hour flight did terrible things to his hair. Once he had relieved himself, he set about making himself look gorgeous again. He ran a hand through his hair a few times and struck a pose at himself. _"Mon Dieu, I am so hot," _he thought to himself as he dug around in his carry on bag for his cologne. With a few sprays, he smelt and looked amazing once more and so glanced at his watch - oh dear. He'd spent almost 20 minutes in the toilets. With a small chuckle, he wrapped a hand around his case again and headed back out into the rest of the airport.

The crowd had thinned a fair amount by the time he was finished, so it didn't take long for him to scan the waiting mass and pick out the exceptionally tall Russian he was here to see. Ivan was standing, staring down at his phone looking somewhat concerned. His smile widening, France slid up to the Russian and gave his scarf a tug.

"Waiting for someone?" he asked and ivan looked up and smiled with surprise. "Francis! You're here - I was beginning to think you had not come," he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

"Excusez-moi, Francis Bonnefoy does not stand up his dates," he said with a smirk, sliding his arm through Ivan's. The man looked down at Francis and raised an eyebrow. "So this is a date?" Francis gave a laugh and a shrug

"It's whatever you want it to be, mon cher,"

Ivan was driving Francis' back to his house, but the journey was a few hours at the best of times, and when it was as it was soon to be, Ivan preferred to slow down. Though at first Francis had been happily chatting away about everything and anything - America had _finally _got England out on a date, and did Ivan know what Francis had caught Germany and Italy doing in the bathroom? - but the long day finally caught up with him and the French nation was out for the count.

At each stop along the way, Ivan would glance across at the sleeping nation, a small smile on his face as he muttered the occasional French word. The blonde looked so cute when he was sleeping, Ivan decided, much younger and more relaxed. Something warmed Ivan whenever he remembered that Francis had chosen to come here in his free time; to see him!

Much of the journey was spent in silence, but Ivan didn't mind. He was just happy that Francis was here with him. As the sun set, they entered Ivan's hometown, and it was only an hour or so later that they pulled up on his drive. Giving the still sleeping Frenchman a quick pat, Ivan unlocked the door and wheeled in his case first, not at all surprised by how much it weighed. Knowing Francis, he'd probably packed a whole wardrobe for this week long trip.

Once the bags were in the hall, Ivan returned to the car and carefully slid Francis' belt off of him, and lifted him out of the seat. As he nudged the car door shut, Francis nuzzled into him, burying himself from the breeze behind Ivan's scarf.

In a matter of minutes, Francis was settled on the sofa with a blanket as Ivan gently pulled off his shoes and placed them by his own at the door. He spared a glance at the fire, happy it was burning nicely, and another at the sleeping Frenchman. He smiled to himself and then spun on his heel, ready to prepare dinner.

When Francis finally rolled over, back in the land of the living, the fire was roaring, the TV was set to a film channel, and there was something warm by his feet. He blinked a few times, and the world came back into focus again.

"Good evening Francis," Ivan said from where he sat at the other end of the sofa, where Francis' feet were lying. Francis stretched and then smiled, sitting up so that he could crawl across to Ivan.

"Evening," he said, resting his head on the larger man's shoulders. Though Ivan looked big and scary sometimes, Francis knew very well, that the man was as sweet as a kitten if you got to know him, and likewise, he was not cold and hard to snuggled, rather he was like a giant teddy bear. To be honest, Ivan was Francis' favourite pillow.

"Did you sleep well?" Ivan asked, patting Francis' leg. Francis yawned and nodded. "Oui, but how long was I out, it feels like days," he asked. Ivan glanced over at the clock, which read 9:30. "Around four hours? Not very long at all, do you want to go to bed?"

Francis was about to say how they didn't have to be _in _bed to do that, when his stomach suddenly rumbled. He flushed a brilliant red, and Ivan laughed - a deep, long laugh. "What about dinner first?" he asked and Francis nodded hurriedly.

"Don't worry, I thought this might happen, I have something ready, let me go make sure it's hot enough," Ivan said, shaking his shoulder a little and moving Francis away. Francis sat up a little straighter so that the Russian could leave. While he was gone, he once again ran a hand through his hair and straightened out the blanket. Ivan caught him fiddling with his hair when he came back with two glasses in hand, both filled with wine of some description.

"Francis, you look fine," he said as he set both glasses on the coffee table. "I like your air all messy anyway," he added. Francis turned another shade of red and said "I just wanted to look good for dinner," he jibed, prompting another laugh from Ivan. Ivan left again for their dinner this time, and Francis lifted his glass and sipped. He was surprised to find it was one of his own French wines, and grinned to himself. Ivan seemed to like it too.

Francis was surprised again when Ivan returned with two steaming bowls of what looked to be casserole. Only, upon closer inspection, he found it to be -

"Coq au vin!" Ivan announced, in a butchered attempt at a french accent. Francis' jaw dropped a little as he took his bowl from Ivan, inhaling the amazing aroma of the chicken and the wine it had been cooked in.

"Ivan! What on - did you make this?" Francis asked, picking up his spoon. He hadn't realised just how hungry he had been (because there was no way on Earth he would eat that slop they call food on planes) and he was itching to start.

"Yes, I made it all myself - it is your favourite, yes?" Ivan asked, sitting down next to him with his own bowl. Francis nodded, his spoon already full.

"Oh, oui! And do you mind if I start now? It smells amazing," he said and Ivan nodded, filling his own spoon. "Of course, you must tell me, do you like it?"

Francis' eyes widened, and he all but groaned. "Ivan... oh, Ivan, you must cook this more often. Mon Dieu, I didn't know you cooked French food so... so well... Though," Francis said, pointing his spoon at the Russian. "I love your stroganov, you didn't have to make this. Even if it is amazing," he said, helping himself to another spoonful.

Ivan grinned as he ate his own dish. "Da, I know, but I thought that some food from home might be nice... it was a long flight, and this is a warm dish. I'm glad you like it," he added, looking back up at Francis, who had laid his bowl back down on the table.

"Francis, why aren't you eating?!" The Frenchman grinned wolfishly, and swung his legs up onto the sofa. "It's a bit hot right now... I think I'll have some Russian starters," he said, crawling closer to Ivan.

"Francis, you are going to spill mine everywhere," Ivan scolded, as Francis leaned in closer, practically sitting in his lap now. "You should put it down then," Francis answered back, holding out a hand for the bowl in question. So as to prevent spills, Ivan let Francis put the bowl next to his own, but then found himself being straddled by the Frenchman.

"Francis, a minute ago you were to tired to even sit up now you - _oh_!"

They ended up having to reheat dinner.


	2. A Wedding

**AN: More FRussia for a friend heheh, this time a wedding~**

**DISCLAIMER: It's still not mine**

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Ivan sat in his hotel room, staring dejectedly in the mirror as Alfred attacked him with a hairbrush. The loud American had told him he had to look "Extra super sexy for your wedding bro!" and then shoved him into the chair. Despite the Russian's protests, Alfred had grabbed up a brush and began styling the man's hair.

"Alfred, really, I am sure Francis will not mind if my hair is not perfect. He den't any other day," he said, as he straightened his tie in the mirror. Alfred laughed and slapped a heavy hand on Ivan's shoulder.

"Dude, it's your wedding, and it's Francis - you've gotta look amazing," he said and took a step back, admiring his work. "Y'know, I'm pretty good at this hair stuff, maybe I should look into it," he said, tossing the brush onto the bed. Ivan glanced at his reflection and was actually pleasantly surprised. His hair did look quiet nice all properly combed.

"Thank you Alfred," he said, picking up his cufflinks from the table. "It looks alright," he added with a smile. Alfred, childish as ever, stuck out his tongue. "I'd like to see you do better!" With that, he headed for the door. "Well, we've got fifteen minutes till this thing starts, think I'll go check on the bride," he chuckled, as he went out into the corridor.

"Francis! Stand still for God's sake!" Arthur yelled, as the nervous Frenchman wriggled about. Francis pouted, trying to hold still as Arthur tied hie tie. He raised a hand to take it back of the English nation.

"You're doing it too tight! Let me do it- ow!" he cried, as Arthur slapped his hand away. The Englishman smirked as he finished the tie. "We all know you can't tie them properly, and you want to look good, don't you?" he asked, stepping back. Francis glared at Arthur.

"Well you asked me to be your best man, I was only doing my job!" he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Oui, because I thought it would be sentimental, a nice gesture seeing how we've been through everything together," Francis snapped, readjusting his tie. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to ask your ex to be best man though, frog," Francis shrugged, smiling at Arthur in the mirror. "We'll you're going to have to get over me sooner or later, mon lapin, I'm getting married in," he checked his watch. "Ten minutes," he chuckled, moving to sit by Arthur. The Brit's eyes were misty, and Francis looked over, concerned.

"Arthur... are you crying?" Arthur's cheeks flared red, and he sent a backhanded slap in Francis' direction. Francis caught the hand, pulling it down and held onto it. Arthur turned away, sniffling a little. "Bloody... I'm not crying!" he protested, but his red eyes betrayed him. Francis smiled, pulling the lanky Brit into a one sided hug.

Arthur stiffened against him, not saying a word, which only made Francis chuckle. "You're sad you're losing your one good shag, mmm?" he asked, prodding Arthur's cheek. Arthur turned, his mouth hanging open.

"You were never that good if I'm honest!" he yelped, shoving Francis and sending him tumbling off the edge of the bed. The Frenchman let out a muffled scream as he landed on his rear, but looking up at the pouting English nation, he couldn't help but laugh.

"Arthur, really, you haven't changed one bit in all these years," he said, climbing to his feet. Arthur still pouted, turning his face away. "We really should be goi-"

Francis silenced him when he reached across and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you... mon ami. You're the best fri-... enemy a man could ask for," he said with a smile. Then he grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders and pulled him into a hug. Arthur protested for a few seconds before relenting.

"You just make sure that Russia treats you right..." he mumbled into Francis' chest.

Francis' reply was cut off by the door suddenly being flung open, and a loud American stuck his head in.

"Hey Francis, no touching, you'll be married soon!" he said playfully, stepping into the room, hands on hips.

"Arthur was getting a little emotional," Francis laughed, letting the Englishman free.

Alfred joined the laughter, ruffling Arthur's hair. "Yeah, he always cries at weddings - you should'a seen when Will and Kate got married-" he began, and Arthur had to apologies to Francis as he shoved the blabbering American out. Ceremonies started in a few minutes, so the wedding party left for their seats, leaving Francis and Ivan alone in their respective rooms.

For both men, the actual wedding itself was a bit of a blur. There were tears, beautiful music and softly spoken vows as they placed the rings on each others fingers. all either could really remember was how the nerves vanished once they stood by the altar, hand in hand. Something about making it official, to be held together not only by their words, but with love, law and religion. In all senses, they were now bonded, it wasn't just a relationship, it was a partnership. They'd face the rest of forever together.

What Francis remembered more clearly, was the reception afterwards; not that he remembered a lot of it, as there had been rather a lot of wine. As all the guests were nations, they hadn't really bothered with set tables and seats. There were seats dotted around the large ballroom, with more than enough space to dance in the middle. As the sun set and dinner was quickly cleaned away, the party could finally start.

But not before their first dance. The two of them had spent afternoons in a Parisian studio, practicing for this, but once they were there, the rules of dance were forgotten. Francis wound his arms around his husband's neck and Ivan held his husband's waist as the two twirled around the dance floor. As their guests slowly stepped own to dance, Francis pulled down Ivan's chin, pressed his lips to the Russian nations.

"Je t'aime, Ivan..." he murmured as he held him closer. The Russian smiled, is lavender eyes swirling with tears, for what had to be the first time Francis had seen.

"Oh, Francis," and then he picked up the shorter man, squeezing him gently and burying his face in his long blonde hair. "I love you... so much"

The rest of the night turned into one long and exciting party. Arthur botched his speech because someone let him at the bar, Gilbert and Antonio got Francis almost naked on the dance floor, and someone spiked Roderich's drink. It was all very exciting.

At one point, Ivan found Alfred alone at one of the tables, and leant over to shout over the music. "Alfred, have you seen England? Francis was looking for him," Alfred shook his head a few times, running a hand though his hair.

"Uh... no, no I've not seen him. Have you-uh..." the American flushed a bright pink, though in the dim lighting it was hard to tell just _how _pink. "Have ya tried the bar?" he asked, and Ivan nodded. "I haven't, thank you," he said, heading off in the direction of said bar.

Alfred glanced down, and Arthur's head popped up from underneath the table cloth. "Who was that?" he said, slurring slightly. Alfred glared down at Arthur.

"Ivan! Looking for you! Really, is now a good time to- holy fuck, Arthur - let go! We're at a _wedding_!" The Englishman shrugged. "So it's the perfect place to get all romantic, no?"

"Arthur, handjobs under the table are _not _romantic!"


End file.
